


Magic of Night

by humaankameleonn (nainai96)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Nick and Norah's Infinate Playlist Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nainai96/pseuds/humaankameleonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn and Niall are having a night on the town when Zayn meets the lead singer of a surprisingly awesome band called "No 'Mo".  (Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist AU written for 1Dslashweekly).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic of Night

The music’s just how I like it: **Loud.**

The bass is throbbing through the air, the ground, my body, the guitar riffs on top are making me think of fairy dust being sprinkled down from above, and the vocals, floating in from the singer’s mic, are soft but heart stopping and soul tearing, but also kind of soul re-piecing. 

His eyes connect with mine for a second over the rest of the crowd and, for that moment, as he lets one final note rip through the air, I wish that the club would go quiet, in respect for them (because they’re fucking good) but also for me (because the gorgeous front man of a respectable band is staring me down and I need to win this). The club only goes half-silent though, but that’s okay because it wasn’t even that quiet when Insert Name of Band Here was playing and Insert Name of Band Here is fucking spectacular. 

Then the noise is back to blasting as No ‘Mo (not sure if the “’mo” stands for emo or homo) takes their bow, eyes twinkling bronze, green and blue, sweat twinkling the colour of pride, whatever the hell that may be, and smiles twinkling the colour of contentment. The rest of the band seems to take no notice as the blue eyed front man continues to just stand there, staring at me. 

I break eye contact first, jumping a solid foot in the air as someone’s freezing cold hand clasps onto my forearm and yells out a ‘boo’ that scares several other patrons. That’s what I get for clearing my mind of Niall for even a second, because I can’t afford to forget about him, not now, not ever.

Niall reeks of Guinness and Crème de Menthe and lemons which means that he’s already made out with the barkeeper, which signals Time. Time to leave this establishment (after bidding Crazy Buncle Simon adieu, of course) and Time to get him into the biting winter air outside before he starts doing his infamous Irish jig.

I step up onto the bar, praising God for making the owner of The X-Factor my uncle, and let my eyes do their thing, darting around, jumping from face to face until that familiar face comes up. Except, this time, Sean’s face is nowhere to be found and I can hear Niall’s English slowly morphing into Gaelic so the decision to find another means of Getting the Fuck Out of Here is made quickly. 

I look straight down for moment before I make to descend back to the level of all those below me and I’m glad I do because there he stands/leans, blue eyes a-blazin’, mouth twisted into a smirk made not of condescension, but of amusement, of mirth. He straightens himself and offers me a thin-fingered hand, a gesture of gentleman-ship and chivalry. I take it ‘cause one: it’s sweet and two: I saw his band-mate, the one with the bronzy eyes, packing up the instruments (real careful, tucking them away for the night). Bronze eyed boy dresses so bad that he has to be from Jersey, and if he’s equipment bitch, that means the man has a van. Which also means a ride home for a certain swaying Irishman and his faithful friend may be in order if I play my cards right. 

Deciding that the “’Mo” in the band’s name stood for emo instead of homo, I take in the man before me. He has decidedly feminine features with sweat and tears tousled [sex] hair and ice blue eyes that look right through you and into another universe. His skin is far more tanned than winter in New York should allow and his choice in clothing reminds me of France, sailing and Pride Week all thrown together. 

Once the words start flowing, the fantastical singer, Louis, almost makes me forget about my goal to get Niall to my house safe and sound. Louis is everything that I’m not; he’s short, loud, energetic, feminine, touchy-feely and sweet like sucrose. He’s the kind of person that demands your focus and has no trouble attaining it. I’m lucky when the other two-thirds of his trio show up, equipment bitch on the right and a tall and lanky green eyed kid to the left, asking him if he’s coming over to Liam’s tonight to sleep, ‘cause they’re leaving, like, now. Louis flashes a quick smile at them and is about to say something in response when Niall, right on cue, comes crashing into Tall&Lanky. I rip away from Louis’ side to straighten my best friend only to find that in the .002 seconds that it’s taken for me to react, Tall&Lanky has pulled Niall upright and kept him completely intact, sending me only a knowing smile.

“That’s Niall,” I explain. “And I kind of need to get him home lest he break out in a surprisingly violent rendition of an Irish jig.” 

T&L and Bronze Eyed Boy exchange a look, and wordlessly turn heel and head out the door, Niall in tow. I follow mindlessly because that’s _my_ surrogate baby brother that’s stumbling over his feet in the arms of a total stranger and Louis follows because he seems to trust his mates.

Once we’re out of the steamy, humid, asphyxiating club atmosphere, my head clears and I realize that Louis’ got his hand in my back pocket and his chin on my shoulder but it’s comfortable and not awkward and that’s when I see the other two exchange another glance that’s confusing and suspicious but not in a creepy way; it’s more mischievous than anything else.

It’s T&L who breaks the silence. “So, where do you live?” His voice is deep and gravely yet young and lively. When I say Englewood Cliffs, the glint in his eyes appears extra-bright, if not for a second and he nods his head. “Where in?”

I give him the address and am pleased when he automatically recites the way there, with all the twists and turnabout’s in place. Louis breathes quietly in my ear, “Harry can do that with any address in the tri-state area if you tell him which county you need.” I’m impressed.

Then I’m shoved forwards and guided down into the back of the boys’ van.

“If we get your friend home alright, would you do us a favour?” Harry’s changing the sheets on a mattress and his friend is pulling Gatorade and Cheetos out of a cooler and setting them aside. 

It’s nothing difficult, they assure me. Just show Louis a good time tonight, take him to dinner and a concert, a burlesque show, anything really. 

“Me and Liam will drive Niall to your house and make sure that he gets to bed unscathed.” The desperation in Harry’s voice is great in mass. “We’ll call you as soon as he’s in bed safely.”

Liam hands me a handful of bills that must total at least two hundred bucks. “Just make him smile, okay?”

I head back out to call my parents and let them know that a horrendously intoxicated Niall will be dropped home in about an hour by two near-total strangers that I met in a club.

Louis grasps my hand and pulls me to an offensively yellow car that looks like the one that my grandfather owned. He’s ecstatic and proud of ‘Jessie’ his baby/Yugo and even lets me drive when I tell him that I’m taking him on an adventure, a tour of my favourite spots of the City, the one that never sleeps and insane because of such. 

We never make it past the first stop of the tour, a burlesque parlour where my friend Toni/Tony/Toné comps our drinks, and lets us stay in his/her apartment upstairs. We lie on the bed until the sun rises, eyes fluttering open and shut, words flowing like a waterfall of truths. He tells me of his friends, Stan and Harry and Liam, how they met, what they’re like, how close they are. He speaks of his favourite TV shows and actors and singers and then pushes me to talk about myself. So, I tell him about Niall and how I hate how much I love him and how my parents love him just as much. How his parents are total jerk-offs who completely neglect him and how proud mine are of how he acts, the perfect example of what the son of a fat-cat-record-company CEO should be, how he should act, who he should embody. How my parents adore Perfect Niall Horan with the thick blond hair, the clear milky skin, the cherry Tootsie Pop lips and the juvenile arrest record. How the world seems to love him too. I confide my fears of the future, the uncertainty and the fogginess that blurs every decision I make.

Louis kisses me then, right as the desperation for comfort breaks through the barriers and bares itself. His lips are sweet like caramel apples and his tongue hot and wild like I expected it to be, but it’s also soft and gentle. The kiss is long and continuous, lasting till the sound downstairs has vanished and the worlds gone back to bed. 

“This is why I don’t like to wash my pants.” Louis drawls as he traces the lines on my hands. “I like to keep the night on them.”

I kiss the words off his lips carefully and curl us up together, eager to sleep the day away and live life only through the magic of night.


End file.
